Jack Harrison and I are barrelling into a storm in a borrowed Corvette, exactly as planned.
If anything, the plan is working too well: there's too much storm. Through the bleariness of a slender rain-streaked side window, we pick out the silhouette of a jack-knifed lorry on the other side of the motorway just north of Gretna. Only marginally easier to make out, as we make slow progress behind our own little bow wave, are gantries flashing yellow weather warnings.
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